


cirsium

by blawky



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 10:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23469661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blawky/pseuds/blawky
Summary: Galar's city-states are broken by civil war. Gigantamax Pokémon have been spotted loose in the Wild Area. An unseen threat gathers on the horizon.Amidst it all, two children from Postwick find themselves part of a weave of history that will not soon be forgotten.
Relationships: Established Nessa/Sonia, Eventual Hop/Victor, Eventual Nessa/Sonia, Hop/Masaru | Victor, Kibana | Raihan/Nezu | Piers, Rurina | Nessa/Sonia
Kudos: 10





	cirsium

**Author's Note:**

> Romance features more prominently in this piece than most Cyclamen works, but it is still a piece predominantly focused on general storytelling. This work exists, as all other Cyclamen pieces do, in the Cyclamen-universe, wherein individuals have strange and fascinating powers dependent upon a unique thread of fate called a "bond". The most common form of bond is what is commonly referred to as a "type" bond, where an individual may have powers pertaining to a specific type of Pokémon; for example, Piers possesses a Dark-type bond. Another type of bond is a Titanic bond, wherein individuals are bonded to a Legendary. 
> 
> This AU takes loose inspiration from "And The World Will Turn To Ash," a webcomic by Surfacage.
> 
> Some chapters may be told from one single PoV, while others may have multiple. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Sand stung Raihan’s eyes as he wandered the outskirts of Hammerlocke, the massive Wild Area sprawling before his eyes. Wild, untamed Pokémon stormed by him occasionally—a menacing-looking Beartic had strode a bit too close to the walls, only to be disabused of the notion by one of his Dragon Warriors before he could lift a finger—yet Raihan couldn’t pay them much mind. There were constant patrols watching the Wild Area, ensuring that none of the bestial Pokémon intruded into Hammerlocke.

And, of late, they watched for opposing forces, too. The cities had gone to war only a few months prior, breaking out in violent civil war. Hammerlocke had yet to join the fray in truth; despite their massive army, Raihan had no inclinations to send his men out yet. Motostoke hadn’t yet made any moves towards Hammerlocke, but Raihan knew better than to assume that meant complacency. Kabu, the fiery Gym Leader of Motostoke, along with Nessa, of Hulbury, and Milo of Turffield, had formed a sort of alliance—honoring an age-old treaty, formed during the first of these civil wars, the civil war that ended with Raihan’s many-times great-grandfather on the throne of Galar. 

The Dragafuil family had since been removed from power, in favor of the Champion’s Throne. He didn’t much mind, but he had his eye on the throne, at least he  _ had,  _ until all of this. Leon had done his best to cobble together some semblance of unity—he was well-loved, which made the civil war all the stranger—and had locked down Wyndon, establishing it as a safehaven. League Knights patrolled the twisting mountains of Route 10, ensuring there were no roaming armies in the area. At Rose’s behest, however, Leon was stuck inside Wyndon. According to what Leon had said in their brief correspondence, the Chairman feared that Leon would be used to consolidate power within one faction or another. It was a sound strategy, Raihan supposed, if a bit hard on morale for the soldiers. 

The Council had been similarly divided in how to act. Nessa Murchada, leader of the Water-type city Hulbury, had taken a leave of absence from meetings, given that she was leading the alliance between Hulbury, Motostoke, and Turffield. They had taken to calling themselves the Elements, which seemed to Raihan rather strange.

None of the so-called Elements were particularly threatening to him—Nessa was incredibly strong, especially given she boasted no blood connection to any of the original ten noble families of Galar, but even she didn’t stand a chance against Hammerlocke’s dragons. 

That being said, the three of them together did pose something of a threat. His closest ally—short of Leon, who could no more move the Knights than he could come to Hammerlocke himself—was Piers, and Spikemuth’s army was no match for the Elements in open combat, particularly with Murchada at the helm. They still didn’t worry him much—Raihan was the best commander Hammerlocke had ever seen, and Hammerlocke had the best commanders in all of Galar. 

The trio of Leaders would likely be too busy fighting Stow-on-Side to worry about Hammerlocke. Bea, another member of the Elites’ Council, was a formidable commander and the Gym Leader of Stow-on-Side. She’d hold the city, perhaps indefinitely, but it wasn’t Raihan’s problem. Only the strong survived. 

He was rather far out, now. The walls of Hammerlocke had been lost in the sandstorm—a storm of his own creation, of course, but still—and instead only a strange scent hung in the air. It smelled like the seconds before a great rainfall, or before a great disaster. 

Lost in his thoughts, Raihan blinked as he heard a large  _ stomp,  _ and then looked up to see a hulking Garbodor, glowing red with energy. 

_ Dynamax?  _ Raihan thought, blinking even as his Flygon descended from the heights above him.  _ But that shouldn’t be possible. There’s no Trainer to activate it…  _

Yet the Garbodor cared little for his caution, and instead launched a massive barrage of dart-like poison appendages through the air seconds before his Flygon hit the ground, massive wall carving itself out of the dirt below them. The poison bounced harmlessly off the wall, but the Garbodor’s lust for killing was clearly not satiated. More viscous liquids bounced off the wall with a sickening squelch, and Raihan contemplated. None of the Dragon Warriors were coming to his aid, of course—they couldn’t even see him, much less hear him. 

Raihan didn’t need them. 

“Flygon!” The Pokémon peered at its master, beady red eyes lush with primordial anticipation. Raihan grinned and pressed a hand to the Mystic Pokémon’s head. His arm tingled with nascent energies, and the two Dragons looked each other deep in the eyes. A silent connection passed twixt man and Pokémon, then, twixt king and beast. 

His Aura spilled out of him in brilliant strands of crimson, streaking out of his fingertips as though a god’s ambrosia, thick and rife with power. The Flygon swelled under the surge of Aura in its body, shuddering with anticipation. 

Dynamaxing had been in Raihan’s family for as long as he could recall. It was one of their many traditions, this summoning of giants to fight wars—though one could hardly call this skirmish a war. 

Raihan climbed atop the Pokémon as it began to swell, feeling their Auras mixing as one. To Dynamax was to draw oneself ever closer to godly power—it was almost tantalizing, especially for one as strong as Raihan. 

Flygon suddenly grew twice, thrice, four times its size, a single limb equal to its size prior to the Dynamax. Raihan let out a holler of excitement, draconic roar parting his lips. He climbed to the head of his Flygon, unfearing, and yelled out a command. 

And then, he paused. The Garbodor staring them down seemed...changed. 

“Gigantamax,” he sputtered. “But that’s not supposed to be possible. There isn’t a Trainer here…” Raihan canted his gaze about, searching. Nothing stirred beyond the terrifying giant. 

A few Dragon Warriors had begun to notice, but none of them stood a chance against this Garbodor. Raihan, though… 

He narrowed his eyes. He was Raihan Dragafuil, and Gigantamax or not, this Garbodor was as though dust to him. 

Flygon rose into the air, though bits of the ground below them still swirled around its body, warding off the Garbodor. For now. It was the perfect tactical move—he expected nothing less from one of his League Pokémon. 

Raihan threw a hand skywards, willing his strange powers into existence. Many Dragons could control one of the four elements they were resistant to for short periods of time—though certain special cases, like Leon, could control any of the four—but the Dragafuil bloodline was different. They could control the world around them, asserting control in a way no other Dragon-type could.

The sandstorm grew almost unbearable, sand pelting his face and threatening to scrape it. Raihan felt none of it—his Aura was split with Flygon’s, now, and Flygon didn’t much care for the sands. A pair of translucent eyelids shuttered over the incarnadine gaze of the Mystic Pokémon, blocking out the sand. The filmy covers blocked none of Flygon’s visibility, however. Raihan grinned. 

Another barrage of poisonous darts flew at them, spewing out of the Garbodor’s rotting skin.   


“Evade,” Raihan commanded, pointing to the darts. Flygon made a few gesticulations with its limbs, and the floating bits of earth moved as though guided, blocking some of the foul onslaught. For the rest, Flygon merely flew up and to the side, dodging about the darts as though they were dust. A few collided with its skin, but it hardly did any damage. 

A grin split Raihan’s mien, and his shining Dragafuil armor caught the flickering sunlight through the sandstorm. His Aura was completely alight around him as he commanded Flygon, crimson veiling him as though a second skin.

“Now! Max Quake!” The Flygon obliged, slamming the floating earth into the ground. Aura arced out of its hulking body, colliding with the earth. It shuddered under the assault.

And then, as all things must, the earth itself knelt to Raihan’s will. 

The ground below them caved, cracked, and crumbled around the Gigantamax Garbodor, knocking the Trash Heap Pokémon to the floor. Raihan roared a laugh. 

“Finish it,” Raihan snarled. “Earth Power!” The earth bled crimson under Flygon’s power, and the ground itself rose in response to his Dragon’s urgings. Raihan felt energy racing through his body, and he grinned as the ground flew towards the supine Garbodor.

And then, just as the earth shuddered and shifted for Raihan, another assault came for the Garbodor, seizing it before Flygon’s magics could. The ripped earth tumbled haplessly to the ground, miniature quakes emanating from where they hit empty space. The Gigantamax Garbodor was now shaking under an unseen assault, form shrinking as the strange transformation began to evanesce. Raihan sputtered atop his Flygon. It was nearly impossible to see the unknown attacker through the sandstorm, and so he guided the Mystic Pokémon down to the ground. 

He spread a hand across the neck of the Dragon-type, willing the Aura back into his body. Crimson kissed his fingertips as his skin swallowed the ancient magics, winking out of existence. 

“A good show, Leader Raihan,” a voice—it sounded childlike, at best—began, accompanied by a strange ache in his head. “But ultimately, too flashy. Disappointing.” 

Raihan canted his head over, and the hubris-ridden figure strode through the sands, entirely unconcerned with the dirt that sprayed across their mien. It was a boy, and one he thought he recognized as one who had frequently traveled in Rose’s company. What was one of the Chairman’s chosen few doing here, on the outskirts of Hammerlocke? 

“You stole my kill.”

The aforementioned kill was now sprawled across the dirt. There were no discernible wounds, but a Reuniclus at the boy’s side told him there was no need for such base methods. A Psychic, then—but the boy didn’t have the air of one of the mind-readers. Raihan was particularly skilled at reading the Auras of others, after so long honing his own with his Pokémon, yet the boy’s was a grand mystery, a spray of color and cacophony, nigh indecipherable. It stung his eyes. 

“It was not your kill to begin with,” the boy stated coolly. He was no more than fifteen, and yet here he stood, openly sassing Raihan, who had held the throne of Hammerlocke for almost a decade. 

“Watch your tone with me, boy.” 

“Do you know who I am? Chairman Rose himself sent me.  _ You  _ should watch  _ your  _ tone.” 

Raihan laughed darkly. “Rose doesn’t have as much weight anymore, you know. If you hadn’t noticed, there’s a war about.” 

The boy’s face scrunched up in disgust. “Please. This war is inconsequential. It does not threaten the Chairman.”

“Just thousands of innocent lives.”

“And? What is a thousand lives to a man as powerful as the Chairman?”

The boy’s name suddenly sprung to his mind. Bede. He’d been the Chairman’s favored contestant for the Gym Challenge, though it had yet to occur—likely much to Bede’s dismay. His hair reminded Raihan of a Wooloo.

“I should hope they’re worth something, Wooloo-Boy.” Bede turned scarlet red at the sobriquet, and angrily stomped a foot. 

“My name is Bede. Address me by it, or don’t address me at all.” 

Raihan laughed. Flygon shuddered at his side, as though in anticipation. Bede did his best to look unconcerned, but he saw the way the boy’s eyes lingered too long on Flygon’s talons, on its fangs as it chittered. Raihan’s grin might have split his face in twain. 

“Don’t be scared,” Raihan drawled. “Flygon doesn’t bite. Unless you deserve it.” 

The Reuniclus at Bede’s side drowsily floated next to the boy, yet Raihan knew the Pokémon was anything but sleepy. He felt the ubiquitous gaze of a Psychic upon him, but Raihan had learned not to let such things affect him. He was a Dragafuil, not some simpering servant in the Rose of the Rondelands. 

Bede smoothed out his violet jacket, embroidered with the symbols of Macros Cosmos, marking him as Rose’s for true. Raihan rolled his neck. 

“What are you here for, Wooloo-Boy?” 

Bede’s glare might have struck Raihan down where he stood, but he just shrugged and grinned.

“Oleana has requested that I personally seek out Wishing Stars.” Bede gestured to the dead Garbodor, and then to his Reuniclus. Raihan squinted, and saw through the onslaught of sand that the Multiplying Pokémon held a small, glittering object in its psychic grasp. A Wishing Star, indeed. Those strange objects were the reason Dynamaxing and Gigantamaxing were even possible, as they held within their meteoric surfaces the methods by which one could draw Aura out of their body and into their Pokémon. The Dragafuils had learned Dynamaxing without them, but Raihan wore one—mostly just so that he could employ the strange phenomenon quicker, and so that he could Gigantamax his Duraludon. 

“And why’s that?”

“It is unimportant,” the boy replied in a clipped tone. Raihan snorted. 

“You’re on Hammerlocke land, Wooloo-Boy. If I say it’s important, it’s important. Now, answer the question like a good Wooloo.” 

Bede clenched his fist. 

Flygon made a humming noise. 

Bede unclenched his fist.

“Chairman Rose believes that they are the key to ending the civil wars, and to restoring Galar’s full unity, as it was when Leon first ascended the throne. Lady Oleana has imbued this task to me, and I intend to see it through.”

Oleana. Raihan hummed lightly to himself, contemplating. The woman was dangerous, to be sure, but she’d never been a threat to him or Hammerlocke. He saw no reason for her to start now, but war made mountains out of molehills. 

“And what business have you in Hammerlocke?”

“None,” the boy said simply, violet gaze full of distaste. “I’m merely passing through and planned to find lodging.” Bede ran a hand through his mop of white curls. 

Raihan snorted. “And did you think to ask? Might I remind you, Wooloo-Boy, that we are in a war.”

“Hammerlocke isn’t. A sound strategic choice, by the way. You should keep that up.”

“Do not think to give me advice on war. I care little for your opinion, regardless of your status as the chairman’s chosen. If it is lodging in Hammerlocke you seek, I shall grant your wish.” Bede peered at him, unimpressed. Raihan laughed inwardly. 

“Good. Let us-”

Raihan held up a hand, cutting the boy off, “I am not finished, Wooloo-Boy. You will be accompanied by Dragon Warriors throughout your stay, and you will stay in the keep unless you notify them.” 

Bede sniffed, but acquiesced with a huff of acceptance. 

“It’s a long walk, Wooloo-Boy. Better start now.”

Bede quirked an eyebrow. “Are you not going to transport me on your Flygon?”

Raihan laughed. “No, I’m not. Flygon only fits one, and I ride alone. Perhaps the walk will give you time to think. I hear the storm’s due to let up soon.”

One of his hands went up into the air, and he felt his Aura bloom around him as he sought to control the weather once more. Sands kissed his fingertips, some making light incisions upon his calloused hands, but he cared little for the pain. He was a Dragon for true, after all, and pain was naught in return for this cataclysmic power. 

Supplicating his Aura with his Flygon’s, he felt the sandstorm slowly evanesce around them. Slowly but surely, the cutting sands spewing out of the skies began to settle, replaced instead by a clear sky. 

Raihan climbed back atop his partner’s back, the Mystic Pokémon now reduced to its normal size, if still a bit larger than an average Flygon. Bede just watched, unamused. 

“You’ve got a whole bunch of Psychics, Wooloo-Boy. I’m sure they can protect you. It’s only a few hours of walking from here to Hammerlocke, I’d say.” His Flygon gradually lifted itself into the air, and Raihan watched as the sun began to kiss the tips of the mountaintops. It would be dark before Bede reached Hammerlocke, but Raihan was unconcerned. Only the strong survived, after all, and Bede seemed able to handle himself besides. 

He turned his gaze upwards as Flygon took wing, and could not shake the sense that a storm was on the horizon. 

— 

By the time Flygon settled down outside the keep in Hammerlocke, the sun had begun to set in truth. The far-off mountains of Stow-on-Side were kissed by a light golden haze, and Raihan might have thought they looked pretty, if not for the primal rage held by the Fighters inside that city.

“Leader Raihan,” one of the Dragon Warriors said, peering up at him. Raihan grinned down at him. 

“Anron.” He hopped off his Flygon, pulling out a small Poké Ball. The Mystic Pokémon disappeared into the ball in a flash of red light, and he looked back at Anron, cracking his knuckles. The man was well-built, as most of the Dragon Warriors were, with shock-straight black hair falling in waves around his face. A polearm hung in his right hand. 

“We were concerned after reports of a Gigantamax Pokémon rampaging were found. Are you well?”

Raihan laughed, grinning. “Never better, Anron. That Gigantamax Pokémon was no match for Flygon and I.” 

Anron tilted his head. “You slayed it? We were informed it was taken down by a Psychic.”

“He helped,” Raihan said simply, mood suddenly dimming. Wooloo-Boy was already more trouble than he was worth, but Raihan had given his word, and in Hammerlocke, that was binding. 

Raihan’s hands raked through his hair. “By the way, that Psychic—if that’s even what he is—will be arriving at the northern gate soon. Make sure he gets to the keep without any disturbances, if you could. And put him in one of the rooms in the guest wing, under heavy guard.”

“You’re housing him?”

“Between you and I, he’s an emissary from the chairman. Best to keep him under our eyes, yeah? Much easier to crush him if necessary.” Anron did not return the grin Raihan flashed, but he hardly cared. He made for the door, before Anron quietly added something.

“Piers is in the war room,” Anron murmured, and Raihan smiled—truly smiled, this time, not his draconic grin—and nodded. 

Raihan breezed into the halls of the keep shortly thereafter, strapping the Poké Ball containing his Flygon to his waist. Piers rarely made visits to Hammerlocke, especially with the war raging, but Raihan wasn’t one to complain. They hardly got to see each other, and when they did, they were usually more concerned with making sure the other’s city was safe. Spikemuth’s standing army was hardly an army at all, and though they were all fiercely loyal to Piers, Raihan worried for the man. Even with the city cloaked under a perennial veil of darkness, it could easily be raided.

Piers, on the other hand, worried immensely that Hammerlocke would be stormed when Raihan was least expecting it, which was unlikely, since Raihan was always expecting it. His Dragon Warriors patrolled the city all day and all night, regardless of the weather. 

And he could manipulate the weather, of course. That always helped throw ambushers for a loop. Raihan grinned at the thought of Bea’s Fighters planning for a sunlit attack, only to be blindsided by hurricane-force winds, or a snowstorm. It was a funny thought, to say the least. 

The war room was at the top of one of the many spires in Hammerlocke. Massive windows dominated the walls, allowing a full view of the city below. A man sat in one of the ornate chairs by the windows, staring out into the sky. 

Piers’s hair had been tied back in a long ponytail, black and white mingling together. Raihan had teased him, when they’d first met, that he looked like a Linoone. 

“I hear you tried to slaughter a Garbodor,” Piers quipped, rising from his seat with a wry smile. Raihan grinned back at the man, chuckling.

“I succeeded, you ass.”

Piers’s smile only grew broader, and he pulled the thick band of cloth holding his hair back out of the silken locks, holding it between his teeth as he tightened it into a bun.

“Sure, sure. So the kid Psychic I hear about was just randomly there, and definitely didn’t move a finger against it.” 

Raihan blew out a breath between his teeth. “Fuck off,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair. 

The Dark-type Leader across from him turned to peer at one of the myriad strategic maps, too-thin fingertips tracing their lengths. Raihan resisted the urge to make a wry jab about his thinness—now was not the time, here not the place. Piers had grown only more troubled since the war’s onset. 

“Are you planning an attack, Ray?” Raihan blinked at the question, gazing at Piers, watching the curvature of the other man’s face as it scrunched in contemplation. 

The question was a strange one, especially from Piers, who was notoriously impossible to draw into war: his Dark-types worked best in smaller-scale situations, like intrigue. It was how Spikemuth had stayed in the political arena, after all—the Corvis of Spikemuth were renowned assassins across all of Galar, spoken of only in whispers. 

“No,” Raihan said flatly. There was no advantage to a forward assault, beyond the boost to his ego. Prolonging the war would only serve to create more death, which was a far cry from Raihan’s desire. 

Piers smiled, languid and slow, “That’s good. Hammerlocke’s refusal to engage will set a good example, I think. Scare off all the idiots.” Something about the man seemed almost too on-edge, even for the leader of Spikemuth.    


“Piers, are you doing alright?” One of his hands crossed over Piers’s, lightly touching the wan skin of the limby Dark-type. 

Piers’s fingertips gripped Raihan’s, and he stared at the maps. 

“It’s Marnie,” he whispered, voice paper-thin. Raihan tensed. “She’s...missing, or something. I think she ran away. Nobody’s been able to find a trace.” 

“She’s capable, Piers. You and I both know that.”

“It’s  _ war,  _ Raihan. Ten Corvis agents have died in the past month.”

“Look at me,” Raihan murmured. Piers’s eyes canted up towards his, and Raihan angled his fingertips under the waif-like man’s chin, forcing them to meet his in full. His eyes had always been full of tragedy, even from the first day they’d met. Today, however, they looked edged with something more, a franticness that pierced the haze of sorrow. Piers had been dealt a rotten hand in life, Raihan knew.

And yet, he persevered.  _ They  _ persevered. 

“It will be alright.”

“But what if it isn’t, Ray?” 

Raihan hissed out a breath. “Then we burn this whole place to the ground.” 

Piers slipped towards him, and the two embraced, their silhouettes alight in the city’s glow. 

“And salt the earth behind us,” Piers murmured. 

—

A bitter wind blew across Postwick, threatening to rip Leon’s hood off of his head. The Slumbering Weald laid in the distance, its whispers almost audible to Leon as he walked along the cobblestone path. Fog tainted the surrounding landscape, and not for the first time Leon realized why many tourists were afraid to visit the sleepy, quaint village of Postwick—the village he had grown up in. 

Not that Galar got too many tourists, of late. The civil wars made all of Galar a dangerous place, and most airfare in and out of the region had been cancelled. Trains still ran, but they were heavily guarded. 

Professor Magnolia’s office laid just up ahead, down the twisting paths of Postwick. Hardly anybody was out—the moon was still high, concealed behind a thick layer of cloud cover. Leon had spent his childhood racing around the streets under that moon, watching as it kissed his hands, silvered and full of blessings. 

He longed for the warmth of Charizard behind him, but nobody could know the Champion was here. Far too many risks came with that—someone could attack Postwick to get to him, or attempt to seize Wyndon while he was gone, or any number of other things. Rose had told him much worse could happen if he left. 

Yet some things could not wait. Leon’s hand lingered on his sword, tucked away in the folds of his cloak. 

Softly, his fingertips rapped against the iron door to Magnolia’s laboratory. The professor wasn’t in, but Leon wasn’t looking for her tonight. 

The door opened barely more than a crack, revealing only a teal eye. It blinked. It blinked again. 

The door parted further, and a woman stood there, almost of a height with Leon. Bright orange curls spilled out in a pigtail off to the side, coming down just about to her cheek. 

“Sonia,” Leon began. The scientist looked mildly taken aback, but perhaps part of that was the hood drawn over his mien.

“Leon! This is a surprise. Grandmother is not in, if that’s who you’re looking for. Come in, though. I just put a pot of tea on.”

“Tea? Sonia, it’s…” He canted his gaze towards the clock behind her. “Two a.m.”

She shot him an unreadable look. “Leon, you just showed up at  _ my  _ house and you’re telling me it’s too late for  _ tea?”  _

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I was just wondering why you weren’t asleep, that’s all.”

“Far too busy for sleep. Grandmother told me she wants me to continue my old research into the Galarian legends, though I cannot imagine why. More specifically, the twin heroes. I’ve been translating some old tomes for the past few hours.” 

“Really? What’ve you found so far?” 

Sonia peered at Leon for a long moment, gathering two teacups. “That depends,” she began, sucking in a breath between her teeth. “Am I talking to Leon, Champion of Wyndon, or am I talking to Leon, the idiot that tripped on a stone his first day on his Pokémon journey?”

“Can’t they be the same person?”

Her blue eyes crinkled as she smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “I don’t think they can, Leon.”

“Well, I’m still the same Leon from Postwick.”

Sonia sighed. The only sound was the tea pouring into the cups, her lacquered fingernails glittering under the fluorescents of the lab. 

“No, you’re not. I’m not the same Sonia, either. I suppose it doesn’t matter, though. How is Hop?”

Leon blinked. Hop was here in Postwick—wouldn’t Sonia know the answer to that better than him? 

He bit down the gnawing paranoia in his stomach. Rose had told him he worried too much for the boy, that he had to let Hop find his own wings. 

“I was going to ask you the same question. You’re the one living in the same town, much as I keep trying to suggest you  _ all  _ come to Wyndon.” He had tried, over and over and over again, but to no avail. Sonia—and all the others—were firmly rooted to Postwick, even Gloria and her mother. 

Sonia blinked, eyebrow furrowing. “Hop and Gloria went to Wyndon a week ago. I just received communication from them yesterday. How long have you been away?”

Leon shifted on his seat. This was bad. This was very bad. “Wyndon has been locked down since the first attack by the Elements. Nobody’s gotten in aside from those with special exemptions—if Hop or Gloria were there, I’d have known.” 

He was standing before he even knew it. “I have to go find them. Arceus, where could they have gone? You were supposed to be watching them!”

Sonia jabbed a finger in his direction. “They’re not  _ babies,  _ Leon, and I am  _ not  _ their mother. They told me they were going to Wyndon, which, might I remind you, you have been  _ demanding  _ that they go to.”

She was right. He knew she was right. That was what irked him the most. “I know,” he said finally, straining himself to ensure it wasn’t a growl. A breath left him. “Gods, I know. But we have to find them.”

“Leon, you have to get back to Wyndon.”   


“I can’t just-”

“The regions are at war, Leon. If you’re missing,  _ someone  _ will seize power. Someone will come looking for you. And the first place they look will be right here. You know that.”

Arceus, this was a mess. Leon reached up to cover his face with his hands. Damn the bloody Championship, damn Wyndon, damn all of it—

He exhaled. “You have to find them for me, Sonia. Swear it.”

“I will.”

Leaving Postwick that night, just hours before first light, was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

And it would only get harder. 

  
  



End file.
